Laurel of the Lion
by Chalybeous
Summary: He was her Champion, but he was not at her command. A request for a lemon between Aegor Cousland and the new coronated Empress Celene


**DISCLAIMER:** I don't often do requests. In fact, I think this is my first. Usually, when I get a request to write a story, it's for something chapters long that will consume months of my time, and I can barely handle my own stories much less take on someone else's story. But the requester and I got this down to one scene, and I thought: yeah, I can squeeze out a lemon ;)

I do not "own" the following characters or the story. (But I do hope you'll enjoy)...

For keller blair 1

 **Laurel of the Lion**

Aegor cocked a hip against the railing that lined the second floor ringing the grand ballroom. He never had much use for balls, other than as a source of, erm, shall we say… "entertainment." Prey was perhaps a better term, as his eyes—a deep and astonishing violet, mysterious and dark beneath his black eyebrows—scanned the three acre dance floor below, searching for his next conquest. There was an ample supply to be had: blondes, brunettes, even the occasional spattering of red, all of them dancing beneath him—laughing, flirting, swirling their skirts and fluttering their fans…

And all so boring.

He shifted his stance, not wanting to lean against the railing for too long lest he develop a slouch. Andraste's knickers, but he was tired, sore, aching, and wishing those damnable healing potions would work just a bit faster. It had been hard enough winning the tournament; it was damn near excruciating not to let the limp and the stiffness show!

"Ser Cousland, is it not? The Empress' Champion?"

Aegor turned towards the voice, a charming smile on his lips. "You have me at a disadvantage," he briefly surveyed the man before him, slightly older, dressed in the finest silks, and hiding behind his Orlesian mask, "Ser."

The other man smiled, at least Aegor assumed it was a smile; it was so hard to tell behind those false faces of plaster and paint. "The only disadvantage you suffered today, wouldn't you say?" He gave a hearty laugh, all an act, a part of the play for those around them who were watching. "A fine showing you gave today at the tournament. And a finer start on your reputation, young man. You have gained notoriety. Rest assured," he leaned in a little too close for Aegor's liking, "The right kind of people will be keeping their eye on you. I," he tilted his mask, allowing one bluish eye to see him unhindered, "Will be keeping my eye on you."

Aegor didn't flinch; he had a reputation for never flinching, even at the lists, even in the middle of combat. He always kept his eyes on the enemy. This man, though a stranger, was definitely an enemy. As he moved off, Aegor briefly wondered if he might be a father of one of the girls he had already bedded during his stay in Orlais, but quickly decided he was too young. An older brother, perhaps, or a cousin, but truthfully it didn't really matter—it wasn't like Aegor had given any of those girls any reason to complain.

He dismissed the other young man for the time being, preferring to return to his hunt for this night's lucky girl.

His eyes drifted over the sea of bodies as they ebbed and flowed across the dance floor. He fought off a sigh, knowing there was no hope for it—he'd have to go down there and dance. Not that he couldn't dance, his instructor had never known a young nobleman take to the complicated steps and sequences as quickly as Aegor, but he simply wasn't in the mood. He had battled his way through a score of opponents to win the Golden Lions Tourney and become the Champion of the newly coronated Empress Celene… all he wanted right then was some pretty girl who'd be easily overwhelmed by his accomplishment and eager for a quick tumble. He turned and, without a hint of his limp showing, made his way to the top of the stairs.

As he descended, he kept his eyes open for any opportunity. There was the brunette over by the hors d'oeuvres; she kept glancing his way while pretending not to notice him. There was another, sitting high on a stool, surrounded by three or four admirers, who would cast her head sideways in an attempt to catch his eye and gather him into her little troupe. But he wasn't in the mood for a brunette; he'd had three already that week. No, tonight he was in the mood for…

There she was, sailing across the floor while the other bodies parted around her, dressed in a gown of royal blue that set her eyes alight, her cornsilk blonde hair pulled back and held in place with pins and clips… the young Empress herself.

Yeah, he could definitely go for a blonde tonight.

A small voice nagged in the back of his head: Stop! What would his father say? His mother? His older brother? Think of the scandal, the consequences, the shame he'd bring to the family. But it was a very, very small voice and easily silenced.

Besides, he was simply standing there, having reached the main floor and not yet decided which direction to go. Celene Valmont was the one making her way to him, not directly to be sure, but her seemingly bored and meandering course would take her just to his left.

It would be an obvious ploy, look to his left where the one girl reigned over her admirers, then as he started moving he'd look to his right where the other girl waited patiently and hopefully to be noticed, and then…

"Oh! Excuse me," he murmured, his hands moving to capture the person he had 'accidentally' bumped into, encountering someone soft and fleshy. He looked to find his arms full of… damn, one of the Empress' ladies-in-waiting. He was sure his timing had been spot on; she must have seen him coming and decided not to play along. Fickle woman or fitting adversary; that would remain to be seen.

"Ah, Ser Cousland the Younger, is it not?"

He set the girl aside and gave a formal bow to the Empress, refusing to show the rancor he felt over being a second, or extra, son. "I am. And your Champion, your Highness."

"Imperial Majesty," another of the ladies-in-waiting corrected.

Celene, however, did not react, her features perfectly schooled. Though she did wear a mask that covered her from the cheekbones upwards, from her nose downwards her face was bare, bare and open for reading. And kissing, Aegor added, noticing the corner of her mouth lift almost imperceptibly. "Excuse me, your Radiance," he used the correct form of speech this time, though not the one that had been suggested, "I am but a humble Ferelden, unschooled in the proper etiquette of the Orlesian Court, and out of place."

"I doubt you are out of place anywhere… for long," Celene countered. "Come," she commanded, holding out her hand for him to take, "I would like a dance, but I cannot with any of the nobles here tonight, lest my favor towards one makes another feel jealous and upsets a delicate balance. My Champion, however, should suffice as a fairly neutral partner that would not show undue or unwarranted bias, keeping all others in check."

"And as a lady, you do love to dance," he bowed over her hand, knowing he should merely pretend to kiss the gloved fingers, but instead pressing his parted lips against the fabric and exhaling hot and heavy.

It worked. The warmth of his breath penetrated and touched her skin, causing her to give a slight tremble in response to his efforts. He didn't give her long to savor this, however, nor her chaperones an opportunity to scold him for his boldness. Still holding her hand, he whisked her away from the ladies and out onto the dance floor.

Celene gasped, silently, the only sign of it in the parting of her lips and the expansion of her chest held tightly within his arm. "You are… quite decisive, Ser Cousland."

"Aegor," he offered his name as his hand behind her encouraged her even closer, obviously offering something more.

She didn't offer her name in return, which he took as a good sign. It meant she wanted to banter, to play, to keep his interest, and he was more than willing to give her his attention. His hand holding hers shifted slightly, sliding his fingers between hers, entwining them together. The signal was subtle, the suggestion all but spoken, and he could see her answer in the rapid pulse throbbing at her neck.

"Quite decisive," she repeated.

"Why waste time?" he countered. "If I see a challenge, I win it. If I see an obstacle, I overcome it. If I see an opportunity," he twirled her around, keeping up with the steps of the dance, and bent her backwards over his knee, "I take it."

Again, his hot breath fanned her skin, this time falling across her bosom. From his current vantage point he could peek beneath her mask, just a sliver, and the sight was encouraging. A pink tint was staining her cheekbones, something maidenly and fetching. As he brought them both up, hating to let her go but the stupid dance would have both partners clapping and stepping back-to-back, he caught a quick glimpse of her eyes. Her pupils were dilating, seeming to grow moment by moment, large dark pools by the time she stepped back into his arms.

"You dance very well, your Imperial Majesty," he complimented her, the formal title tumbling past his lips. He smiled roguishly, a lock of his midnight hair breaking loose to fall across his brow. He was baiting her and he knew it, was fairly sure she knew it, but this time the obvious tactic worked.

"Ce… Celene," she hesitated, but parted with her name as she would soon be parting with her chastity. "And thank you, my Champion; you dance as well as your reputation alluded. Though tonight I find myself growing tired of it all." He watched as her eyes rolled around at the milieu. "The same music. The same steps. The same partners."

"A change of scenery, then?" he suggested. "Something fresh and open? With the moonlight to soften the harsh lines, and a summer breeze to remove the stench of conflicting perfumes."

She smiled, she honestly smiled at him, "You, Aegor, are a breath of fresh air."

"Precisely what I was suggesting, your Radiance, erm, I mean, Celene." He paused in the dance, taking both her hands between his, his violet eyes so deep they threatened to drown her. "A stroll out onto the balcony, just for a few moments, to clear your head."

"I don't see how a stroll with you would help clear my head," she snarked, a side to her he hadn't expected. "But that other part I could see, that it would last only a few moments…"

"Ah, your Imperial Majesty," he said loud enough, just in case they were overheard by any ill-mannered eavesdroppers as he escorted her off the dance floor, "You wound me with your lack of faith in my skills. Haven't I proven myself to you, winning your tournament, becoming your Champion?"

That corner of her mouth curled, her eyes twinkled behind her mask, "That was today, or yesterday, rather, as it's well after midnight. I'm wondering what you would do for me today?"

He leaned over her shoulder, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of her neck, as he vowed, "I shall endeavor to show you, your Radiance."

They did their best to evade anyone who might have delayed them, weaving through the crowd as they made their way to a dark corner. Aegor had reconnoitered the ballroom earlier that evening, discovering the secluded and overlooked corner that led to a small balcony. He handed her through the archway first, taking his time to cast about for a movable stand or small planter, thinking to find a way to block or close off the entrance so that they would not be disturbed. There were two planters, one to either side of the entrance, with small sculpted trees in them that were almost as tall as he. He should be able to shift them fairly easily and obscure the archway…

"Don't bother," she sighed, as if she could read his mind. "My ladies will see to it that we are not disturbed. I am curious, however," she swept on, dismissing his misgivings and almost taking control of the situation, "Why you chose this place?"

Almost… taking control. Aegor walked up behind her and set his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. He towered over her—at six-and-a-half feet tall he towered over most everyone—and in bending his neck to stare down at her, a few black locks of hair fell forward to break up the harsh lines of his face and soften his features. He saw her lips part, felt her shoulders lift in another silent gasp, and knew he would enjoy tonight. "I like the view."

She blinked up at him, "Of the gardens below? We can't see much from this corner. Or do you mean the countryside?"

"I'm not talking about out there," his hands left her shoulders, drifting over the fabric of her gown, past the neckline, and across her bared collarbone. As his fingers touched her skin she shuddered, shivering, but not from any wayward draft. He knew his hands were rough, calloused, from years of practicing with sword and horse, as he trained to hone his skills and his body. He tried to go lightly over her flesh, to barely touch her, so that he wouldn't inadvertently scratch her, but she would not have it. She leaned into his caress, standing on tiptoe, placing her hands on his chest to leverage herself higher. He obliged, allowing her to feel the roughness of his fingers, the split nail he had gotten during the hand-to-hand part of the competition, leaving a long red line along the top of her shoulder. He didn't break skin, he wouldn't go that far, but he did let her know, without any doubt, that he was not some pampered lordling, a second son of a Ferelden nobleman, who whiled away his time and his fortune in drink and whoring. Well, he did while away his spare time drinking and whoring—when he wasn't currently occupied with the next adventure that came along.

He stroked up the side of her face, curling his fingers to brush his knuckles against that tempting corner of her mouth, before slipping beneath her mask and lifting it from her face.

She gasped, leaning back away from him, but the damage was done, her face was exposed, her defenses down. "Aegor…?"

"Like I said," his voice was deep, rumbling, somewhere between the purr of a lion and the growl of a bear, "I like the view." The blush came back, and he was right; it was a very becoming pink on her cheeks, now that he could see it clearly.

Suddenly he spun them around so her back was to the balcony and his to the countryside. Just as quickly he followed through, stepping forwards and forcing her to step backwards, until he could press her up against the wall. He had seen, as he maneuvered her around, what she had meant earlier by her ladies-in-waiting, the trio of women standing in front of the entrance like a living battlement—no one was going to accidentally walk in on the middle of their affaire de coeur.

A pity, he sighed, thinking how much more exciting it would be with that added danger, but he supposed a newly coronated Empress did need to take some precautions. He'd have to find another way to get her heart racing. Yet not quite trusting those faceless ladies completely, he did position them behind one of the planters, so even if someone were to pass by, they wouldn't be seen.

He had dropped her mask off in the dirt of the planter as they passed. Then his hands took hers, entwining their fingers once more and holding them down to their sides, pressing the backs of her hands against the wall. His strength was astonishing, easily keeping her pinned with just those two points of contact. Her pulse quickened again, finding herself caught between a muscular rock of a man and the stonework of her own palace.

Celene, without lifting her head—still feeling embarrassed and awkward without her mask—raised her eyes to look onto the face of the young man before her. She had watched him off and on during the tournament, curious about the young Ferelden lordling who easily bested men with twice his age in experience. She hadn't seen much of his face then, nor of his body, but had listened to the gossip about the handsome lordling with eyes the color of a midnight lake. She had studied and assessed his armor and sigil—a black stag wearing a crown—the craftsmanship of the armor very humble and modest of wealth. But serviceable, obviously, as he had won the day and the title as her Champion. Then, after seeing him at the ball tonight, his dark eyes—never before had she seen such a deep violet color!—and darker hair, his cheeks freshly shaven, his broad shoulders barely contained within his jacket… Blessed Andraste, but this man was gorgeous!

She had found herself curious, and though she had tried to fight it for most of the evening, at long last she had had to arrange a little "bump" into each other, if only to gauge his personality, and to see those rare eyes for herself! Too late, far too late, she remembered the old adage: Curiosity killed the cat.

Good thing she was a lioness.

When he tilted his head, she tilted to match, lifting her chin, offering up her mouth to his, but keeping her eyes open. He did as well, and she had to smile within herself; this would be an interesting night.

Aegor didn't question her wanting to keep her eyes open; he did so out of habit, out of a want to keep an eye on the girl before him, study her reactions, learn what she found pleasure in and what would cool her ardor. And she was cool, like a drink from a mountain stream, brisk and freshly born of melted snow. He could work with that. He could warm her, stoke her fire, flush those cheeks hotter and hotter with desire until she spontaneously combusted. His lips moved. Their kiss had started fairly chaste and simple, a press of flesh against flesh. But now his lips moved and parted, just that little bit, a promise in the parting so strong that it compelled her to answer in kind. Triumphant, though wanting to go slow to savor the moment, he slipped just the tip of his tongue past his lips to lick at hers.

There was a throaty sigh, spilling upwards from her mouth into his, something ancient and primal and far beyond understanding. Something earthy and instinctual. Something wanton and a little bit surprising. He saw her eyes widen just that little bit; yes, she had been surprised herself over her own reaction. Good.

Aegor pressed the kiss harder now, pressing his body against hers. His tongue delved into her mouth as his groin ground against hers, giving a hint of what was to come. She fought back, though not in a way that said she didn't want this, want him. Her tongue wrestled with his, the two slippery muscles fighting for dominance within the cages of their mouths. Her fingers, still captured by his, began squirming and twisting to find leverage against him. And her hips—Sweet Maker! those hips—cocked and hilted, attempting to line herself up with him despite the difference in height.

It was his turn to be surprised, his turn to gasp into her mouth when she, using his hands and the wall to brace herself, lifted both legs up and wrapped them around his hips. He grunted, not having expected the extra weight quite so suddenly, but as ever he was up for the task. He let go of her hands, freeing the deft fingers to wander freely across the landscape of his body. He had another target now in mind, a softer and fleshier destination, his rough hands catching the fabric of her dress as he found and cupped her buttocks through the fabric. Once he had a firm grip he flexed, his muscular arms easily baring the load, and tilted her hips just that little bit more into the perfect angle.

"Now," he breathed, pulling out of their kiss just far enough to speak, "Who's being decisive."

She smiled, a self-confident smirk, and threw his words back at him. "If I want something, I will make it mine."

Oh, yes, she was quite a handful, figuratively and literally, as his hands were full of her cheekiness. But he was not going to let her be the only one to have their way tonight. "I am your Champion to command, your Imperial Majesty…"

Aegor did not wait to be commanded, despite his vow. He bent his neck, his lips moving from hers to stroke her jawline, as his fingers kneaded her through the thick fabric of her gown. Her hands were not idle, either, the lithe digits deftly undoing the fastenings of his jacket. All too quickly she had it open, the edges spread apart and almost to his shoulders, her hands delving to his waist to pull the fabric of his tunic free.

"Patience," he breathed hotly against the skin of her throat, but she didn't heed him. In a final effort to slow her down he flexed the thick muscles of his arms, lifting her even higher off the ground, raising her bosom up into his reach. Her hands, however, stubbornly held on to their fistfuls of tunic, and brought the shirt up with her, exposing his skin to the cool night air. The knuckles of one of her hands brushed against his skin and he gave a small gasp, muffling it against her. He could feel himself responding too quickly, too early, growing heavy and swollen, as her cool and thin fingers played with the thick black hair that covered his chest. If he didn't regain control soon… If he couldn't distract her… as she was distracting him…

He shut his eyes tight against her caress and focused on what was in front of him—her cleavage. It was modest in size, and modestly covered despite the wide collar of her gown. He dug his chin into the shadow between, working his jaw, using it as a third hand to pull her gown down and expose just that smallest bit more of her creamy soft flesh. He turned his face to the side, mouthing across the skin, until one popped free of its confines. Now it was her turn to gasp, her turn to grip him and hold on tight, her turn to grow distracted as he descended hungrily onto the globe. She was young and firm and on the cusp of womanhood, her figure beginning to show the promise of the future, though ample enough for tonight, for this moment, for their tryst. He used his lips, his breath, his teeth, gently nipping the sensitive flesh, turning her skin to gooseflesh, tightening the peak into what had to be a painful tiny nub. She wanted it, however, wanted more—he could tell because her hands left his chest to grip his head, her fingers threatening to pull out tufts of his midnight locks if he dared to leave off his lathing.

Aegor obliged. His tongue drew a wet line, from cleavage to apex, wide and thick across the side, but just the tip flickering back and forth when he reached the peak. Then he repeated the movement, this time coming up from beneath to the tip, and once more from the outer edge. She wanted to groan, he could feel the rumbling vibration deep within her chest, but held the sound at bay. She did arch her back, however, when his mouth tried to swallow her whole, when he suckled like a newborn, when his teeth gently grazed the tiny pebble, above and below.

His hands beneath her, supporting her, bracing her against the wall, could feel the heat from her body practically pouring out of her. She was getting ready.

He attacked the second the same as the first, stroking and caressing with his tongue, teasing and tweaking with his teeth, leaving long wet trails on her skin and then blowing, gently, to cool the saliva and make her squirm. His hair was now thoroughly mussed, her fingers ruining whatever control he had managed to gain over the helmet-hair he had suffered after a full day of combating. Yet he didn't care. He could tell, he could FEEL, just how much she was enjoying this.

But he wanted her closer to that edge.

A sound finally escaped her, a small moue of protest and disappointment, when he, at the risk of going bald, left off his lathing and pulled out of her grasp. She didn't like that, he could tell by the way she squirmed and sought for a position she would prefer, but he would not allow her the advantage. Suddenly he flexed again, shoving her even higher up the wall, making her stop squirming lest she free herself of his grasp and fall to the floor. His next move was just as sudden, dropping to his knees and ducking his head beneath her skirts, slipping her legs up over his shoulders.

Celene's eyes widened, but he couldn't see it. She couldn't see, either, other than the bulge of his head through her dress poking up obscenely between her legs. She could feel him, however, feel his broad shoulders flex beneath her thighs, feel his calloused fingers pulling aside her underclothes, feel his hot breath—down there!—fanning her. When his tongue… Blessed Andraste… so wet… so thick…

His senses were full of Celene, the smell of her, the taste of her, the softness of her. Though it was dark within the tent of her skirts, the moonlight unable to penetrate the rich fabric, he could use his other senses to explore her body. He easily found the triangular patch of hair, as soft as the cornsilk blonde of her head, his nose burrowing through the velvet and inhaling—infusing his lungs with her musk. His fingers pulled aside her dampened underclothes, finding her swollen and flushed with passion, coated with her own heated moisture. As his rough skin stroked along her sensitive flesh, he felt her legs twitch across his shoulders and her heels bounce against his back. His tongue darted out, a quick reconnoiter, just to locate that tiny, hidden core.

She twitched again. He could feel her scramble for a moment, her hands undoubtedly failing to find purchase on the smooth marble behind her. He smiled, smiled against her hair, smiled against her desire. His fingers gripped and fatally ripped apart the flimsy cloth of her knickers, leaving her without cover or concealment. Then, since he was not going to need both his hands, he brought out his left hand from beneath her skirts and offered it up, like a pedestal, for her to use as support. She gripped it fiercely with both hands as he began.

Oh, sweet Maker… The taste of her was pure ambrosia, her musk headier than the finest perfume. The way her body responded was so pure, so honest, he could forget she was Orlesian and well schooled in playing The Game. His tongue sipped, tiny tip to tiny tip, a light and gentle touch that made her shiver. He pressed the whole slippery muscle against her in a long, stroking lick, his moisture mingling with hers, and she arched her back in response. He obliged her unspoken command, bending his neck to angle his tongue further down. Her fingers tightened their grip on his hand, threatening to break it if he hadn't been so muscular. He gave her a squeeze in response, reassuring, and drew his tongue along the sides again. And again. And again.

He didn't stay for long, preferring to keep changing his tactics, to move to a different location, to use his tongue or his teeth or his fingers. Or all three at once. His teeth hovered over her skin, above and below her core, barely touching yet effectively holding it prisoner. His tongue reached out, like a slippery digit, making swirling, spiraling licks. His middle finger made for the prize, caressing first one side, then the other, then both sides at once, tracing the entrance, coating itself in her own juices. Then it pushed into that secret, velvet, heated vault of her.

He felt her tense, felt her gasp, and knew something was very off. He held still, wondering, suspecting, rejecting the idea as preposterous. Surely not… she wouldn't be… couldn't have chosen him to… surely by now she must have… at some point…

"Celene?"

"Aegor," she answered, her voice—what he could hear of it—a little strained. It didn't matter, really, what she said, as the answer to his unspoken question was already there, dripping out of her, covering his finger and his hand with a little rivulet. She was—or rather, up to a few moments ago had been—a virgin.

Not that she was his first virgin. Nor did he feel daunted by the honor. Even if she was an Empress, she was still a woman, or by now nearly so. Regardless, she was a female, and had the same bits as all the other females, so that wasn't the issue. But a little warning would have been considerate. He sighed, what was done was done, and grabbed at her ruined knickers to wipe off his hand. He finished tearing the fabric the rest of the way off, using his teeth and hand as she was refusing to let go of his other hand, and used it to wipe up the rest of the mess.

"Aegor…?" she questioned, probably a little concerned, possibly a little upset, but he didn't let her worries or anxieties take root and grow. Once the evidence was removed, he returned to his original plan. But slower now, having to restart from scratch, as no doubt the uncomfortableness of the unchangeable act would have cooled her ardor.

He moved in again, his tongue gently nipping, his hand massaging her thigh reassuringly. He felt her relax, the tension and apprehension bleeding out of her as he returned her focus to her pleasure. And pleasure her he did. He waited, tormenting her, licking her into submission, until he felt the heat begin to build up and pour from her. As his mouth focused on the very core of her soul, his thumb slid upwards, caressing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, floating over the delicate skin of her groin, stroking towards the center of her being. Her legs twitched, but she made no move to stop him, gave no other sign that she feared the pain would happen again. Encouraged, he used his middle finger again, and traced the still-swollen flesh.

Moisture was there, fresh, had to be as he had wiped away everything from earlier. He could feel her body heave with each breath as he swept his finger up and down the sides, swelling and thickening almost before his very eyes, his finger becoming coated just from moving around the outside. He took a breath, redoubled his attack, and slid his middle finger inside up to the first knuckle.

There was no protest, no jerk, no hesitant block. If anything, he felt a draw, as if something was pulling him inside, deeper and deeper, desperate for his touch. He did so, pushing more of him into her, feeling the next knuckle almost stretch her as it passed through. He also felt her heat, felt the velvet softness enveloping his digit, and knew he was the first to have ever touched her there, in this way. It was a heady thought, powerful, one that nearly made him spend himself there and then in his leggings. But now, more than ever, he wanted this night, their first time, her first time, to be perfect. So he fought back his randiness and focused on her, her body, her reactions, her timing.

There it was at last, that throaty groan, unhindered, uninhibited, undeniable. She couldn't stop herself now, she wouldn't, not after making that sound, so wanton, so needy. Instead, she would open up to him and refuse him nothing. As if to confirm this he pulled his one finger out, joined his index finger with it, coated them both, then slipped them back inside. She bucked but allowed the penetration, one of her hands leaving his to grip his head, forgetting it was beneath her skirts and out of her control. He laughed, hot and full of self-assurance, his breath striking and fanning her hair. She gave off trying to grab his head with a huff, going back to grasping his hand with both of hers, but using her legs instead to squeeze, her thighs wrestling his cheeks and stuffing his ears, holding him in place.

He obliged.

His hand curved, the fingers twisting around inside a little bit, stroking from within while his tongue stroked from without. She would not last long—no woman could—beneath this onslaught, and he used every sense at his disposal to watch her, to gauge her reactions, to know when she got close enough. He was not going to let her cum, not quite yet anyway, but he was going to bring her right to that edge. She was nearly there, heavy and flushed with desire, the moisture almost dripping from between her legs. There was that moment, half a breath, where time paused, where she hovered on tiptoe, standing at the rim of the cliff, wavering between stepping back and allowing herself to fall…

He pulled out of her, the same time closing his mouth, his only contact with her down there was his forehead pressed against her soft hair. She made that reedy sound again, but he didn't obey. He waited, waited until the twitching stopped, waited until her heartbeat slowed, waited until her grip loosened and he could once more feel the blood flowing into his fingers.

When he came out from under her skirts, he found her staring at him, her expression stern and disapproving, needy and vulnerable, and messy all over. He didn't speak, didn't answer her, other than to—still without letting her feet touch the ground—slide his torso up between her legs, keeping them raised while he stood to his full height.

Maker's breath, but she made an alluring sight. What would her subjects say, he wondered, if they could see their new Empress now: her hair coming loose of its pins, her mask removed, falling out of her bodice, her skirts wrinkled and bunched around her hips, her legs raised and spread, and a minor Ferelden lord—practically a nobody—about to deflower The Lioness. He almost laughed at the thought, the scandal, the aghast outcry… almost. This was not the moment for laughter. This was the moment for action. He lined their bodies up, his hands beneath her once more, shifting and tilting her to gain the right angle.

But she was not idle. Apparently, she'd had enough of being only on the receiving end. She gripped his tunic, a hand to either side of the V of the neckline, her fingers quickly undoing the laces. He thought it odd; if she wanted to feel his chest again, she could simply lift the tunic up and he'd gladly shrug it off. She had other plans, however, more obvious and devastating plans.

As he had ripped apart her knickers, she ripped open the front of his tunic.

Not that he minded. Quite the contrary, he often encouraged it; most girls were fascinated by the heaviness of the black hair that covered his chest, and were readily occupied playing with it. In that respect, even an Empress was no different from a bar maid. Her fingers burrowed through the coarse curls, twisting the short strands that carpeted his collarbone, swirling the ones around his tips, tracing lines through them across his ribs, rubbing her knuckles along the washboard of his abdomen. Her fingers found his navel, the tip of one hovering disappointedly when she discovered he was not ticklish. Then she discovered the even thicker hair, the path that fell from his navel to disappear into the waistband of his leggings like a sable waterfall. Her fingers followed this path, somewhat quivering but also knowing full well what she sought, and that she would find it at the end of the path. And she almost made it, too, his leggings a little looser without the tunic tucked in them, but not quite loose enough. Besides, her skirts were piled up there and made it too difficult to get much further from that direction.

He laughed, silently, a breathy chuckle that bounced her on his hips. She looked up at him, tearing her eyes away from his chest, to find he had been watching her this whole time, watching and letting her be amused and explore and satisfy her inquisitiveness. She pouted, feeling as if she may have been played just a bit. But he kissed her, impulsively, a little nip that somehow told her it was okay, he enjoyed it too, he wanted more as much as she did. She stared up into his eyes as he pulled back, focusing on those deep violet orbs, those bottomless pools that hid so much of his thoughts, his intentions, his motives. Her hand cupped his cheek, as if by touch alone she could clear the mystery and see behind those violet curtains. "Dear Maker, your eyes… so dark… so beautiful… so… unique…"

He might have taken offense at the beautiful remark, but if so she couldn't truly tell. He blinked at her, slowly, holding her gaze and captivating her soul, his stare alone enough to make her heart race. And he knew it, too, damn him; she could tell by the smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. He took her hand in his, turned his face without taking his eyes off her, and kissed her palm, warm and wet and oh so full of promise.

Aegor let go of her hand, watching her closely and planning his next move. He wanted to enter her, to feel her swallow him up, but he feared he may have waited too long, allowing her to explore his body, and her ardor might have cooled too much. He tested the waters, teasing her and baiting her to ascertain her emotional state, and she responded with a bit too much thought. He needed to change that, he needed to take away her ability to plan and stage her reactions, he needed her to be wanton and open and honest again.

His hands gripped her cheeks once more, the muscles in his broad shoulders rippling and making her grab hold for dear life as he shifted her upwards. It wasn't too far, just enough to tuck his thumbs into the waistband of his leggings, tugging them down as he also let her slide down again. His member popped free, flushed and eager to finish the night's activity, but he knew he shouldn't simply shove his way in. He should coax her once more, rekindle the heat, bring her back to the edge of that cliff. Yet apparently she was closer than he thought, her hands bracing against him as she tilted her hips and…

Oh, sweetblessedAndrasteandallherhandmaidens! She was so tight… so hot… so slick… he penetrated far too easily, almost without effort, his thickened shaft parting her and plummeting into her depths. Now he was the one teetering on the edge of the cliff. Damn, but this was going to get messy, not to mention embarrassing, if he couldn't regain control—of himself at least if not of their lovemaking. He needed to gain the upper hand, to put her at a disadvantage, but one that would not put her off of sex. He needed… fuck… he needed…

It was a colossal effort, one that made him grit his teeth—not from the strength it took to lift her and spin her around; she was as light as a feather in his arms. But from the strength it took not to pound into her right then and there. A film of sweat saturated his skin from hairline to his toes, but he managed it. He lifted her up, taking her away from the wall, turning them around, and stepping over to the railing.

It was a perfect height, conveniently. Setting her bare skin on the cold and wide marble made her gasp, but kept her lined up perfectly with his groin. Her skirts fell behind her over the side, making her feel the tug of the heavy fabric, and she had a moment of weakness. She couldn't help herself. She looked over the side, after her skirts, to see the ground a good three stories beneath her. Her pulse quickened, her chest heaving with breath, as she tore her eyes from the danger and focused instead on the one thing keeping her from falling. Aegor. Aegor her Champion. Aegor with his mysterious violet eyes. Aegor with that smirk and that midnight hair and…

He shifted, a minimal thing, checking to see if she was still ready, still aroused, still wanting this joining. And she did. Though her legs pinched him like a vise, though her fingernails dug little half moons into the back of his shoulders beneath the ruin of his tunic, though her eyes were wide and her lips parted as if ready to scream, she also trembled with anticipation and soaked the area where they were one. He moved again, rocking his hips, sliding himself out just a little bit, then back in, shoving her back and forth on the railing. She gasped, ground her groin tighter against him, but made no move to call her ladies-in-waiting or a guard or stop this in any way. So he continued.

He bent forwards, forcing her back over the drop a little bit more. He could feel her heart race beneath his lips kissing the vein in her neck. He kept one hand at the small of her back, the other behind her head, supporting her, all the while his legs were firmly braced on the balcony. Neither one of them were going to fall, but the imagined danger distracted her, tore the advantage from her, and left her completely at his mercy. And he was merciful, his pace slow but measured, his angle reaching deep inside her, filling her, while the pressure of their bodies rubbed at that little core, the coarser hairs of his groin teasing and stimulating her sensitive bits. Very carefully he studied the woman in his arms, waiting for that moment, holding himself at bay while pushing her closer to the edge, the rhythm of their bodies building, rising like the tide beneath the moon, the place where they were joined growing hotter and flushing with blood and getting oh-so-tight they shouldn't be able to move and yet it was so slick and wet and…

He felt it, though barely aware through his own blood pounding in his ears, he felt the first tremor of that avalanche of pleasure rake her body. Then there was a pause, a hiccough of time, a fraction of infinity that never happened.

She was about to…

He hefted her off the railing, not trusting himself, knowing already how mindlessly he could rut when the situation called for it—and he had a feeling a very, very mindless rut was about to happen. He barely reached the wall again, all but slamming them against it, pushing up into her as she clamped down on him. Then it happened.

It started as a shudder, a tremble, a reverberation that ran through her from head to toe to soul. He felt it within his arms, he felt it down there where they were one, his lips drawn into a silent snarl as he held his own pleasure back and waited for the next part. It didn't take long, Celene throwing her head back as she arched her back, drawing him like a vacuum even further. He hilted himself completely, all the while trying to keep one hand behind her head so she wouldn't brain herself against the stonework. She panted next, her breath staggering and haggard, and he feared she might scream out her ecstasy. Immediately he fell against her, smashing their mouths together, teeth clacking painfully as he swallowed all sound. She moaned into him as her body violently spasmed, pinching so tightly, burning so hotly, flowing like a rapids. He rode out her passion that overcame her in erratic waves of pleasure and desire, convulsing around him and milking him…

He broke off the kiss just far enough to gasp before returning, this time to muffle his own cries. He pulsed, bursting himself within her, a peripheral elation that he was somehow sure, in no way, matched her deeply internal and personal rapture. But he was as powerless to stop it as she had been to stop hers. He rutted, like some sort of horny animal, long and hard—far longer than he had with any other girl. He seemed to be filled with an endless supply, pumping himself into her as if he would load her completely with his seed. As if he wanted it to drip and drain out of her for hours. As if this would be their one and only tumble so he'd better make sure it lasted a lifetime…

When he finally regained control, he found she was still pinned between him and the wall, her arms cradling his head, her lips bruised with passion, her eyes glazed with the aftermath of her pleasure. Slowly he caught his breath. Slowly he slid her down to her feet. Slowly he stepped back to see if she could keep her balance. Somewhat reassured by her timid and slightly bashful smile, though she kept one hand on the sleeve of his coat, he gestured to the front of her gown, "You, erm, might want to adjust…"

"What?" she blinked at him. Then her free hand found her bosom, felt herself hanging out in the open, and that very becoming pink graced her cheeks again. "Oh!" she gasped, letting go of him to cover herself.

Solicitously, he turned his back, allowing her to fix her dress without feeling embarrassed by his scrutiny, though why she would after what they had just done, he couldn't fathom. It was one of those womanly things he was sure he'd never figure out. As he waited, his eyes caught sight of something shiny in the planter, and he reached down to retrieve her mask. He turned it this way and that, admiring how the polished gold refracted the candlelight, and his reflection. He was lost in this contemplation when it was suddenly snatched from his fingers.

"Thank you." The tone was regal, womanly, commanding, and he turned around to see her affix the mask to her face. He knew he was once more in the presence of her Imperial Majesty, and not Celene, and felt a little cheated by that.

"Milady," a voice called from the archway, and belatedly Aegor remembered they had never truly been alone this whole time. He felt his cheeks redden a bit, wondering briefly what the ladies-in-waiting must think of him, but then considering the royal romp he'd just given her royal radiance, he decided it didn't matter what they thought.

"Milady, you should return to the ball. You've been absent long enough. Oh, dear, your hair. It's thoroughly ruined."

"Never mind," the Empress brushed aside the concern. "Take out the pins and let it fall loosely over one shoulder; it'll look fine. And you," she turned her royal gaze to Aegor next.

"Yes, your Radiance?" he bowed, only then remembering that his tunic was torn apart and his chest fully exposed. He didn't bother to tug the ends together, or re-stuff it into his leggings, or even to close his jacket.

She managed not only to look unconcerned while the lady-in-waiting knelt at her feet and attempted to smooth the wrinkles from her gown, but almost divine, like Andraste herself stood before him—a blasphemous thought, but one that amused him nonetheless. "Wait a few minutes before following. It wouldn't do for anyone to see us leaving this balcony in each other's company. And then…" she smiled over the head of the older woman, "Meet me in my chambers. Later. After the ball."

The woman gasped, but quietly, knowing it wasn't her place to reproach her Empress.

"And when will the ball be over?"

She looked at him, her eyes all but hidden behind her mask, his violet eyes all but hidden below his brows. "Sunrise."

Then she was gone.

Aegor smiled to himself, pleased to add another successful conquest to his growing list. As he tucked in his shirttails and closed his jacket to hide the evidence, he gazed out over the landscape, noticing the change in color along the eastern horizon. Sunrise wasn't far off.


End file.
